


the foot of this mountain

by Rynezion



Series: invisible machinery [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (sort of), Anxiety, Dealing With Trauma, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, no character death (I don't think I could stomach that), past break-up mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 14:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynezion/pseuds/Rynezion
Summary: ‘Have I ever told you why I came to Ferelden all those years ago?’ he interrupts, moving his hand to burrow deep into the hair at the nape of her neck.‘It was Crow business. A contract from Loghain.’‘Indeed. What you probably don’t know is that there was no other Crow insane enough to take that contract. It was a guaranteed failure from the beginning.’-Security at Vigil's Keep is lax as usual, some secrets are laid bare and Zevran and the Warden attempt to figure out how to put their relationship into place after Alistair.





	the foot of this mountain

**Author's Note:**

> this story is a continuation to [these moving parts inside of me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12750642) \- you don't need to read it for this to make sense, but some context probably won't hurt!
> 
> this definitely wouldn't be a thing without Dea and the people who commented on the previous thing, _thank you thank you thank you_ for the encouragement, it really helped kicking my butt in gear!
> 
> [here is all the art related to the series](http://rynezion.tumblr.com/tagged/invisible-machinery)
> 
> [here is a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/rynez/playlist/66Xcv1g9Xi6k8cHAGM32Ig?si=PPWprNLHSVCmHFCB-Eqe8Q)  
>  EDIT (08/06/18): some editing done in grammar and characterization based on further work within the series (and to make the quality difference less jarring, hopefully! this is what happens if you write a series out of order :'0 ).

Zevran arrives back from Kirkwall four months late. Frost is still clinging to the landscape, stubborn and bitter like an old man, despite Wintersend being over weeks ago, and the hills surrounding Vigil’s Keep are covered in a light dusting of snow. He enjoys the view and does his best to ignore the cold, watery mud persistently working its way towards the inside of his boots.

_ Oh, to be home again.  _

Sneaking into the Keep is an old habit. He avoids the sentries around the outer perimeter with ease and scales the slippery rooftops of the outbuildings until he reaches a convenient outcrop in the inner walls, climbing up several window ledges before he finds one open to a deserted corridor. Zevran drops to the stone tiles, quiet like a cat.  _ Mission successful.  _

Then somebody pointedly clears their throat behind him.

His dagger is out even before he finishes turning around, jumping backwards into shadow out of muscle memory.  _ Alert. Enemy.  _ The memory of Kirkwall is too fresh under his skin, it seems. 

It’s the unpleasant elven woman, of course: she hovers half-obscured behind a door that leads to one of the mages’ storage halls, frowning like she found something unpleasant growing on the walls of the communal latrine.

“I wonder if you will ever start using the front door and stop giving the guard captain an excuse to shout at the sentries again,” Velanna says by way of greeting. Zevran smiles pleasantly. 

“If the sentries were better at their jobs, surely there would be little need for shouting, don’t you think? In that I am, in truth, doing them a favour.” The dagger slides back to its place with ease. Velanna scowls and shuts the door behind her with more force than strictly necessary.

“The Commander’s busy this morning,” she drawls as she brushes past him, watching him out of the corner of her eye. The look reminds Zevran of some predatory reptile—nothing as majestic a dragon, but something small, quick and poisonous. An unpleasant thing. “There is a send-off in about an hour, and some  _ shemlen _ lordlings wandered up from the city this morning, wanting to see her,” Velanna continues, “I expect it will take a while.” 

With that, she disappears around the corner without waiting for a reply. 

_ No sweat off my back _ , Zevran thinks, shutting and barring the window as appropriate and stalking off in the opposite direction.

He goes to deposit his travel supplies in one of the unused rooms upstairs, empty still of some unfortunate Warden recruit, then makes his way to the Great Hall at a leisurely place. Nobody thinks to stop him. 

Most recognise him as ‘that wily one with a penchant for lurking’, or ‘the Commander’s companion, you know,  _ from before’ _ —he is here rarely enough that the rumours about his person get a measure wilder every time he returns. The rest of them, well. Despite what people like to say about him being ‘unnecessarily flashy’, he has always been good at appearing unassuming when the situation requires so.

The large, stone hall is mostly empty when he slips through the door. The two human servants are busy lighting torches and arranging candlesticks, paying him no mind as he climbs the stairs to the gallery and then up the wooden beams supporting the roof until he reaches an outcrop just over the row of windows he can settle in, the light from the torches hardly reaching up this far. It puts him at ease to be out of sight. Sneaking around Vigil’s Keep is, he finds, somewhat therapeutic.

He dozes off for a while before blinking awake to the noise of people filling the Hall: Wardens in their uniforms, some of the King’s Army and a small group of uncomfortable looking humans in fashionable if plain clothing standing together in a close group. The mood is decidedly sombre. He can’t help but notice how most avoid the four Wardens engaging in quiet conversation in the centre of the hall—there is travel gear stacked around them and an abundance of weaponry, which gives him a good idea about what kind of ‘send-off’ it is that Velanna so nonchalantly mentioned before. 

He shifts, uncomfortable.

That’s when he spots her, walking up to the dais surrounded by a small group of her companions. The unpleasant elf woman, Nathaniel Howe, some others he doesn’t recognise; he looks around, but can’t find the healer who was all but glued to her side for a while when the Vigil was still but an abandoned husk of a fortress occupied only by owls and the remains of a disgraced household. She looks tired. There are circles under her eyes and her face looks almost as gaunt as it did around the days the Blight has ended. He can’t help the stab of guilt that wells up for being so late. His mission and his nature takes him away often, more often than she likes, and for longer and longer stretches of time.

It was all much easier when there was another he could trust to make sure she was well and cared for.

The ceremony itself starts with little fanfare. Iraine stands, staff touching lightly on the ground for balance. Her words of blessing and goodbye are familiar, and he can feel the years of experience and confidence behind them now—it makes him proud and strangely sad that despite her quiet nature, she settled so well into her role as Warden-Commander. 

Iraine has always been nothing but diligent. 

He leans forward as the rows of Wardens murmur the formal oath, lines he’s always found a touch too excessive but that fit an order so old and with a burden so heavy to bear. She moves to clasp hands with the four who are leaving, speaking quiet words that don’t reach up to his perch.

One of the windows near him is cracked open, and he slips through before the four Wardens on their Calling turn around to leave.

-

The route to Iraine’s study is familiar, shorter through the rooftops even with the detour he takes to the kitchens. He places the basket of bread and cheese on her desk. The scratched and worn surface is covered papers and pens and bottles of ink, heavy tomes written in a language he isn’t familiar with, diagrams of troop movements and diagrams of spells. He skims through them out of habit despite not understanding most of it. 

The room hasn’t changed much his last visit—shelves are sagging from the weight of books upon books, tools and instruments for measuring and mixing, bags of dried leaves and twigs that she still seems to prefer keeping around rather than having to go to the herbalist two floors down. The far corner is occupied by a collection of maps, one half unfurled on the stand depicting a cave system that leads to what looks like some sort of artifact. It’s a mage’s workroom through and through.

He supposes it shouldn’t surprise him after all these years, her comfortable habit of studying and reading and research that isn’t only born out of necessity, but out of genuine enjoyment. In another life in which she wasn’t forced to choose between a precarious future and her loyalty to a friend, she would have made an exemplary Circle mage. In another life maybe, in which being a Circle mage didn’t mean lifelong imprisonment under the ever watchful eyes of men and women who were taught to distrust anything magical out of a disproportionate sense of necessity.

His recent experiences in Kirkwall do nothing for his faith in the Chantry’s efficiency in this matter.

Shivering, he turns to the dark fireplace—it hasn’t been lit for days, from the looks of it, and he grumbles under his nose while poking around for kindling. Surely somebody in this Maker-forsaken pile of stone would think to make sure their Commander takes care of herself. Surely.

_ If she lets them,  _ the thought intrudes, unwanted.

Several hours later the room is still empty.

Zevran paces for a while, tracing her shelves and digging through her papers again out of boredom. Once the fire starts dying down again, he huffs and slips back out to the cold, dark corridor.

He climbs the stairs to Iraine’s private quarters to find them dark and smelling musty, the bed unused for quite some days. A group of Wardens eye him suspiciously as he enters the Great Hall. Nothing. He waves at the group of men, cheerful, then disappears behind the corner before they can stop him and he has to waste time on answering questions.

Iraine isn’t in the kitchens, or the garden, or any of the mages’ storages, not in the officers’ quarters or the library, the mess hall, the basement. The training grounds outside are bustling with activity, but she is missing from her usual spot of observation. 

Nathaniel Howe, however, spots him almost immediately and jogs over with his bow slung over his shoulder.

“Zevran. I didn’t know you were back.”

“Did your delightful elven companion not say?”, Zevran inclines his head towards Velanna who seems absorbed in repeatedly icing one of the training dummies a few paces over, in front of a bunch of rather pale looking new recruits. “Her and I had the most stimulating conversation earlier today. I figured she would complain about my return to anyone who was willing to listen.”

Howe huffs a laugh and claps him on the shoulder, a friendly gesture thankfully devoid of the unnecessary posturing force some warriors like to equip under the guise of a heartfelt greeting. Zevran avoids the thought of specific warriors with specific shoulder clapping habits, and turns to scan the training grounds instead. Howe follows his gaze.

“You looking for the Commander?”

“Is she held up by noble business still? I have been waiting for some time.”

“The ones from this morning started for Amaranthine immediately after… well.” Howe’s frown deepens. “The Commander went to clear her head, said not to disturb her unless disaster strikes. Callings are hard on her, I think.”

“Right,” Zevran nods, uneasy. It’s not that her need for space sounds unreasonable, or particularly out of character. Yet Iraine isn’t one for disappearing for hours on end, not unless she’s ill or hiding something, and Nathaniel’s badly concealed unease is putting him off balance.

“I better go find her and report in before the Wardens throw me in the dungeon again for lurking around,” he says lightly. “Thank you, my friend!”

“Try the battlements!” Howe calls after him. “She is up there often, says the open sky helps her think.” 

Zevran waves in thanks, then turns to leave, heading across the weapon’s storage and through a small back door that leads up to the first level behind the kitchens. It’ll be faster to go through the servant's quarters, circle back to the study and then the battlements, maybe the alchemist, or the Healers’ Ward, or…

His thoughts are distracted by a sudden noise that’s coming through a closed door down a narrow side corridor. He stops, listens. It sounds like the clatter of metal on stone and a deep, rasping noise he cannot place. Curiosity carries him down the short way to the door. It’s plain, unassuming—a storage room of some sort, likely housing supplies for the kitchen that is only a few doors down. His hand is on the handle and he hesitates only for a second before entering.

The room is lit only by the greyish light seeping through a small window high above shelves and shelves of wooden crates. All around the floor are discarded pieces of blue and silver armour. There is a figure bowed over in the corner.

_ Iraine _ .

The noises she makes are terrible; fast, heaving breaths that don’t seem to carry all the way to her lungs and whistle on the way out, deep sobs of fear and anguish. He stands frozen for a second, unable to comprehend any of it. The instinct to turn around and flee is so strong it rips a small sound out of him.

Zevran shakes it off, fighting a well of shame as he falls to his knees next to her, calling her name, pulling her arms away from her torso to search for the injuries that made her hide in distress and is alarmed when she fights his touch, hands glowing first blue, then purple, then flickering out entirely. The noise of distress she makes at that feels like a kick in the gut.

He can’t see blood. There is no tear in Iraine’s armour, her robe is whole, there is nothing to see there apart from the years old burn scar left on her right arm as a parting gift from the Archdemon six years ago. She’s uninjured, she’s whole. 

_ What is going on? _

Zevran turns to begin raising the alarm, shout for help,  _ anything.  _ He’s half risen from his crouch when a hand clasps his right wrist, squeezing so hard it stings.

“Just stay,” Iraine whispers, “Just stay. Please. Just stay.”

_ Void.  _

Zevran touches Iraine’s shoulders lightly and she rests her forehead against his chest. She takes several deep breaths. 

“Iraine…?” He inquires, trying his best to keep the panic out of his voice. 

“I’m all right,” she replies.  _ Liar.  _ “Just give me… just a second. A second.” 

Zevran moves closer, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her back in slow, even movements. She feels smaller than she was last time. Too small. He can feel the shape of her ribcage under his fingers as she takes breath after shuddering breath.

“Is there anyone… Did anyone…”

“Just me, my love. Just me.”

She sags against him in relief. There are several further deep inhales before she speaks again, her voice regaining some composure.

“All right then. All right. No harm done.”

“Iraine—”

“Later, Zevran,” she looks up, tired, but smiling. It’s a terrible smile—thin and fragile as if a soft summer breeze could break it. “Help me up?”

“Are you sure you are all right to—”

“Just help me up, Zevran. Please.”

Zevran pulls her up against his better judgement, and Iraine immediately begins collecting discarded armour pieces from the floor. She swats his hands away when he bends down to help. 

“It helps me think,” she says, “sorry. I didn’t mean to… sorry.” 

“It’s all right, my love. It’s not your fault.” He retreats, giving her space as she paces for a while, huffs a breath, then fixes him with a sharp glare. 

“You. You are four months late. Where have you been?” 

Zevran attempts to adjust to the swift change of topic, head spinning.

“Is that what you want to know? Are we ever going to talk about…?” He gestures around the storage room and Iraine seems to waver before focusing her gaze on him again.

“I’d rather you forget you ever saw anything,” she says, rubbing her forehead and closing her eyes for a brief moment. Another sharp huff of breath. “No matter. I’d like to know what kept you, if it’s all the same to you, and then… well. I was worried.”

Zevran pushes off the wall and moves closer, extending a hand towards her and putting his worry away, deep, by force. 

_ For now.  _

“Why don’t we go upstairs, and I tell you all about it, hm? Kirkwall. Delightful city.” He smiles, and she returns the gesture with rather more feeling behind it then her previous attempt, taking his hand in a firm grip. 

-

Their lives are separate units colliding on occasion. It has always been this way—it has been the basis of their arrangement from the beginning. In retrospect, they were all unequipped to deal with the aftermath of it all: the war, his increasing need to disappear _ ,  _ Alistair’s resentment over a kingship that rested heavily on his shoulders and Iraine with her silence and fearful resolve, trying to keep them all anchored together.

Zevran watches her curl up in one of the armchairs in front of the fire, small and unassuming, almost unrecognisable as the Commander of all of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens without her armour of leather and metal and studied behaviour. It’s just her now, just Iraine. The silence stretches thin between them.

He finished his detailed account of his time in Kirkwall over dinner. The increasing tension between the mages and templars worries her, he can tell. She’s chewing on her lower lip and tapping on the cover of her journal even now, thoughts careening so loud he can almost grasp them out of the air. However impartial Grey Wardens are supposed to be in facing the movements of the world, her interest in Circle affairs never dissipated over the years. 

He wonders what it’s like, being a mage who stands with one foot outside of the Chantry, still one of them by principle but never quite belonging either. It must be strange to be on the sidelines while all those political maneuvers and games are finally coming to head.

“I’m not a danger,” she says into the silence. Zevran shakes himself out of his reverie. Her right hand with the burn scar reaches out to grasp her staff leaning against the armchair as if seeking reassurance. “It doesn’t affect… I’m not going to become an abomination. Of this, I’m sure.”

Zevran swallows back a noise, the prospect of Iraine being possessed not even crossing his mind until now. The thought is chilling.

“It’s… I’ve…” she stops, pulls her knees up against her chest and looks away into the fire. He waits.

“I’ve always been like this. Being in the Circle isn’t… wasn’t… I was just a child. I couldn’t remember my mother’s face. It was a cold, difficult place. The templars were afraid that my fear will make me more susceptible to possession,” she huffs a humourless laugh. “Wynne, she probably didn’t remember by the time we met again, but… There were exercises. Breathing. A lot of thinking and diagrams and talking and some spirit magic that… helped.

“By the time we met, controlling the panic was almost second nature. There was no time for thinking, and when… there was always a forest, a grove, some privacy. And later, you. And Alistair,” she adds. The name twists something sad and terrible inside him. It must show on his face because Iraine gives her a familiar smile, one of many understanding gestures of sympathy they shared between them since they were left to rely on each other only.

Zevran heaves a deep breath and desperately wishes to be allowed to touch, to hold her. Iraine never talks about the years she spent growing up at Kinloch Hold. Even the time immediately before her expulsion is more or less a private matter she only shares details of out of necessity, her grief for Jowan and later Irwing and Wynne part of that particular nest of vipers.

“What happened today?” he asks quietly. Iraine looks away from him and into the fire.

“They call it necessity. A necessary sacrifice. Weisshaupt,” she spits the word with venom, anger pulling her features into a play of golden light and dark shadow. “They said I wasn’t diligent enough with recruiting. They want numbers, more, always more. The four of them today, they were my recruits. I shouldn’t have… they were much older. Volunteers. I handed them the cup myself.”

The Joining.  _ Blast it. _

“I signed the death warrant of so many people, Zevran,” she murmurs, the words almost getting lost in the crackle of the fire. “I don’t much fear what’s coming for me—what’s done is done, nothing to do about it now. I fear for… I fear for him. He still hasn’t married, you know.”

She avoids his eyes. He keeps quiet.

“I’m responsible for all of them out there. I’m making sure they are well fed, they have somewhere to sleep and the right equipment to do their jobs well. I keep the Vigil running. I keep Amaranthine’s nobles happy. And still, when it comes to the end there is nothing I can do apart from holding their hands through the onset of the madness and send them to the Deep Roads when it’s time. It’s gruesome. It’s cruel.”

“You think you are failing them somehow?”

She turns to him, eyes glittering in outrage.

“I  _ am  _ failing them! I’ve failed them the minute I offered them the possibility of becoming a Warden. I used to believe…  _ ‘In death, sacrifice.’  _ What a sentiment. It demands everything from you. I used to think it was the only way, but there  _ must be  _ something else. Something better. Morrigan…”

He can’t help the flinch.  _ Morrigan.  _ The memory of that night before the march is sharp in front of him like it happened yesterday, the anguished look Iraine and Alistair shared, his inability to feel regret when he realised it worked, when he saw them again, alive and whole.

“I wish I could have seen her at least once before she left,” her voice is barely a whisper. “I wish I could have told her that I don’t regret it happened.That I understand. My last words to her were… not words of friendship.”

“It needed to be done, but you did not have to be happy about it,” Zevran says, itching to reach out and close the distance between them. The space stretching from one armchair to the next might as well be hundreds of miles. “Even he knew it, that foolish man. He would have had no qualms to sacrifice himself after all, and—”

“We couldn’t have lived with that,” Iraine finishes. “At least like this, he lives.”

Her hand tightens on her staff, then moves to reach out towards him.

The tangle of their fingers is like an anchor.

“Loneliness makes it worse,” she continues. “The others… being Commander is a lonely place. Being an a mage and an  _ elf  _ on top of that… It shouldn’t be this hard. I shouldn’t take it this hard.”

He gently tugs on her hand, until she untangles herself and stands up, moves closer.

“I’ve seen this often with Crow recruits, you know,” he murmurs into her hair as she settles, accepting the long strokes of his hand down her back. “The world has never truly been a friendly place for you, and that I can understand. We all make our peace with it differently.”

“What if I can’t make peace with it?”

“You must try not to carry it alone.”

“But-”

“Have I ever told you why I came to Ferelden all those years ago?” Zevran interrupts, moving his hand to burrow deep into the hair at the nape of her neck.

“It was Crow business. A contract from Loghain.”

“Indeed. What you probably don’t know is that there was no other Crow insane enough to take that contract. It was a guaranteed failure from the beginning.”

Iraine lifts her head from his chest, eyes narrowing.

“Why did you take it then?”

“I wanted to die.”

Her shock is almost physical enough to touch. She makes an aborted motion with her hand that could have been anything—a punch. A caress.

“We work in groups sometimes, with the Crows,” Zevran continues, “when it is an especially difficult contract or one that requires more pairs of hands. Sometimes, if a group works well enough together, they get to stay a permanent match.”

He remembers Rinna’s knife’s edge smile the first time they met, her unexpected kindness. Taliesen. The missions, the jokes and pleasure they shared. Even after all these years, the memory still elicits a small tug of pain.

“They try and make sure we are unable to form meaningful bonds with each other, you know. As children. They buy us in bulk after all, and killing off most of us one way or another is not something they lose much sleep over. Life is short when you’re a Crow. You love hard and fast and carve out as much pleasure out of it as you can. The three of us—Rinna, Taliesen and I—were unstoppable. Both at the end of the dagger, and in love.”

He doesn't miss her flinch at Taliesen’s name, and part of him is pleased she remembers. Those days are largely a blur in his memory thanks to copious amounts of Antivan brandy and the feverish hours he spent in their company. That terrible day has touched them all. A shadow impossible to erase.

“The Crows don't mind attachments once we are not children anymore but efficient killing machines. Knives in the shadow. Well. Our case was, as it happens, something of a special kind. There was a test. We have all failed in some way.”

“What happened?” She asks.

“They made us believe Rinna was a traitor. To this day I do not know whether it was true, but it matters little now. It did not end well. She died. Taliesen and I never forgave each other, and I was left chasing… something. Death. Redemption, perhaps.”

“Zevran.”

“It all turned out in the end, didn't it? I wanted to die by your hands. All things considered it was a rather dramatic approach to suicide, but at the time it made sense to me. You though… You. You have a way of crossing one's plans without the possibility of return.”

“Hardly,” Iraine mutters, pulling back. Zevran brushes a lock of hair back from her forehead.

“The moment you pushed past your distrust and reached out to me, you took part of my burden. The moment you took me into your heart and gave me your friendship, I wasn't carrying it by myself anymore. It meant everything to me. Still does, even if the strength of it makes me want to run far away from you sometimes,” he chuckles with little real amusement. “I never said I was perfect.”

Iraine winds her arms around his middle. He feels… not exactly shaken, but raw around the edges, like and old would scraped over by a dull knife. It's a peculiar feeling.

The ache that is Alistair missing from between them is suddenly almost unbearable.

“I miss him, you know,” he says, and Iraine’s embrace tightens in understanding. If Alistair was here, he would have the exact phrase ready to dissolve the heavy mood that settles around them. He would be there with well meaning words and arms that used to envelop both of them with such ease. He finds himself wishing to be able to share this story between the three of them, their love distributing its weight evenly.

Too bad Alistair didn't want to have anything to do with it in the end.

“How are you feeling?” Zevran asks. Iraine heaves a deep sigh and tucks her head under his chin.

“Strange. Ashamed that you had to see… what you saw. Sorry I didn't tell you earlier. Sorry that you know so much now. Shaken by… I wish you told me earlier. About Taliesen. Told us.”

“What will you do now?”

“I was thinking of telling some of it to… Nathaniel’s trustworthy. He is looking out for me even when he thinks I don’t notice,” she tenses, as if expecting disapproval. “He's a friend.”

“I like him. He's very pleasing to look at in a very traditional ‘tall, dark and handsome’ way.”

Iraine slaps his chest, indignant; and they dissolve into laughter that quickly turns from shaky to warm and affectionate. Hearing her laugh is a relief. He burrows his nose into the space between her neck and shoulder, seeking—she lifts to accept the kisses he offers, burying her hands in his hair and making a mess of his braids. He doesn't find it in himself to care.

“I missed you,” she sighs into his mouth, tired and slightly breathless, “I missed you.” He gently brushes their noses together.

“Iraine, my love, I will not make promises I don't know if I can keep. But,” he brushes a finger against the shell of her ear, “but I will try to spend more time here with you. I wish you told me you need me more often.”

Her smile is warm, sad. “I don't want to... I understand that you need your freedom, your space and that I can't keep you with me forever however much I might wish it. I made my peace with that.”

“Do you think you can put up with me for longer than a couple of weeks at a time? Can we figure it out together?”

She kisses him, slowing down to an almost imperceptible brush of lips and noses.

“I would like it if we tried,” he presses.

“Will you leave when you feel that you need to?”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I Promise.”

She murmurs her approval against his neck and he busies himself with the many hidden clasps and buckles of her robes, each layer of cloth and leather gone is another sigh of relief. Her dark skin looks almost golden in the firelight. He runs his hands up her sides, her back, down to her hips. It feels good to be this close. Calloused fingers trace his ears and his collarbones and move down, catching his nipples on the way as she turns to straddle his legs and he buries his face into her shoulder.

It feels so  _ good  _ to be close.

The fire is mostly gone by the time they are done, Iraine collapsed on top of him in the armchair with a comfortable lack of layers between them. She stretches her feet towards the glowing embers.

“I never really got used to being allowed to be  _ warm  _ all the time, you know,” she says, sleepy. “First the tower, then that year on the road, somehow… I keep forgetting about the damned fireplace.”

Zevran lazily trails his fingers up and down her arm. “What did you use to keep warm then? In the Circle?”

“Spells,” she says, stretching out her right hand. She lifts up to look and him, questioning, and he nods. Her hand is almost uncomfortably hot as she touches his shoulder. “It’s not really the same—it’s different from fire. If doesn’t really chase off the  _ feeling  _ of cold, just prevents your toes from falling off.”

“Feels plenty warm to me.”

Iraine leans back against him in silence that stretches comfortably between them. It’s familiar. The warmth of it settles straight into his bones, it feels like: despite their differences, despite their often seemingly futile efforts to make their lives work with each other’s, love has always come easy for the two of them. Iraine always seemed to have an endless capacity for it.

He pushes back the urge to reach out for someone who isn’t there.

Zevran isn’t the only one whose thoughts have strayed in the same direction.

“Do you think…” Iraine starts, then trails off. The line of worry that was blessedly absent for the past hour appears between her eyebrows again. “Do you think we can see him again? Not as… I see him, as Commander, often enough. I mean…” She burrows herself deeper into his embrace, and he pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I wonder if he had something different to say this time. I just… I wonder, sometimes.”

“I suppose you are quicker to forgive than I am.”

“Perhaps I am. It’s been… a lot has passed. I just want to see if there is a possibility for, I don’t know. Reconciliation? Talk? Something. Maybe.”

He is aware that his feelings on the matter are complicated and not necessarily rooted in reasonable thought. The break was ugly and terrible and it left the two of them in a position of precarious balance, abruptly finding themselves missing something that clicked vital parts of their lives in place. Alistair’s absence has left a rift impossible to mend.

He also hurt Iraine terribly.

“I don’t know if I would want him to be part of this again,” she continues. “But I never felt like we… He never really said what he really wanted to say. When he… that time. I always got the impression that it was really Eamon doing the talking, not him.”

“Does that make it any better, you think? That maybe,  _ maybe  _ he did not really  _ mean  _ it?”

She fidgets, growing uncomfortable. He fails to swallow the pang of shame and jealousy that wells up inside him.  _ Am I really never going to be enough?  _ But it’s a thought that leads to nowhere, because the feeling of wrongness is just as strong in him as it is in her and he knows very well that it doesn’t have much to do with what the two of them mean to each other. It’s a complicated instrument, love.

“We will never know unless we try, don’t you think?” she asks, uncertain. He finds himself nodding into her hair.

“I think… I might like to know too,my love. I do not know if I can forgive him, but I can certainly try.”

“That’s good enough for me.” She turns again, touching her forehead to his. Like this—tangled together in the glow of the fire, with their secrets and aches laid bare between them—the constant nagging urge to flee quietens into a soft hum that is almost possible to ignore. He leans into the touch. She nuzzles back, smiling.

“Thank you, Zevran.”

“Whatever for, my dear Warden?”

She shrugs, looking away. “I know you feel guilty for leaving me behind so often. But you’re always here when it matters. And it’s better, like this. I can have you happy and whole, with me, when it’s time.”

“Does that mean you are feeling better?”

Her hum is slow, uncertain. She trails an absent finger down his chest.

“I’m feeling hopeful. All things considered, that probably matters more.”

Later, once they get dressed and climb up to Iraine’s barely used rooms just to get undressed again, once she falls asleep, boneless and exhausted under the covers, he slips through an open window one more time and perches on a familiar section of the roof by himself. There is a wind that finally chases off the heavy clouds of snow leaving him sitting in what seems like an embrace of thousands of stars.

Far into the distance he thinks he might see the lights of Amaranthine. The wind smells faintly of salt—it’s the Waking Sea, he can easily imagine the waves lapping at the shore, carrying fragments of treasure from so many distant lands.

He allows his mind to wander. He thinks about Denerim, the castle that sits in the middle of the bustling city and the man who sits in that castle surrounded by courtiers, advisers and servants, guards and soldiers, a city and a life full to bursting. Thoughts turn around his head slowly.

_ Many different kinds of love, Zevran.  _ Rinna’s smile is warm in his memory, the edges framed gold and red with sunlight and the heat of summer. 

Zevran sits on the rooftop of Vigil’s Keep, grip firm against the slippery tiles, and wonders. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


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